


The Winning Strategy

by SimoneClouseau



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingering, Gay Chicken, Huddling For Warmth, Kissing, M/M, UST, bed sharing, jerking off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6513070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimoneClouseau/pseuds/SimoneClouseau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonny doesn't lose at gay chicken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winning Strategy

**Author's Note:**

> Somebody gave me this [amazing insta photo](https://www.instagram.com/p/BB8iv2zPF4e/?taken-by=shawz65), I made one little comment, and the next thing I know the hounds are baying at me to write a gay chicken fic. Thanks to usual peeps for audiencing, you know who you are, and especially to sorrylatenew for the latenight beta. 
> 
> Warnings for: internalized homophobia and confusion over sexuality.

A lot of picture taking happens whenever the team visits the White House. It’s not like Patrick doesn’t get this, winning the Stanley Cup is a big deal, duh. But forget that he’s done this twice before, he always spends the whole visit nervous that he’ll break something on top of being obscurely terrified he’ll go somewhere he’s not supposed to. He doesn’t want that memorialized forever on the Blackhawks twitter feed. 

Patrick has a feeling that Faber wishes that Shawzy had that problem. In the middle of a perfectly serviceable photo of him and Jonny and Turbo, he’s got his hand inching steadily up Jonny’s thigh. Jonny for his part hasn’t so much as looked down at his lap, just keeps serenely chewing his gum and talking like nothing’s happening, because no matter what Shawzy does, White House or not, Captain McTouchy doesn’t lose at Gay Chicken.

“C’mon, now,” Fabes says, aggrieved. 

“What?” Shawzy asks with wide-eyed innocence, like he isn’t moments from groping his captain’s dick in the fucking White House. 

Jonny leans back against the (probably two-hundred-year-old) bench they’re sitting in and nonchalantly lifts his wrist to check his watch while Patrick smothers a laugh. Yeah, he’s going the whole nine yards again. Shawzy hesitates for one short second when he’s the last few centimeters away from Jonny’s zipper, hovering. 

Jonny looks over and raises a brow, daring him. 

Shawzy gives him a hard stare, eyebrows screwed together like he can will Jonny to break, and when that doesn’t happen, he finally goes for it, cupping his palm over the placket of Jonny’s pants. 

Jonny lifts his chin in a conspiratorial nod, eyes heavy-lidded. “Yeah, you like that?” 

“Augh!” Shawzy finally cries, leaping up off the bench like he’s been burned, while the room busts up into laughter. “Fuck, how do you always do that?” 

“You shouldn’t encourage him, Tazer,” Fabes says with a dark look. 

Jonny raises his hands in supplication. When he turns away to go document Seabs and Duncs staring at a painting, Jonny looks over at Shawsy, purposefully popping his gum like he’s Danny Zuko, and says, “Can’t help it when he wants some.” 

“Maybe you want some of me!” Shawzy shouts back. 

Jonny chuckles. It turns into a full blown laugh when he catches Patrick watching, like he’s somehow in on it. 

“You know, kid’s got a point, if you keep this up, he’s gonna go to further and further lengths,” Patrick points out, “Soon you’ll be standing there, letting him palm your junk while you make out with him.”

Jonny laughs, blowing another bubble in his gum. “Nah, he doesn’t have the stones for that.”

Patrick looks down at his phone, pretending to be busy. “Sure you’re not panicking right now?” he says, offhand. 

Jonny opens his mouth to respond, but Fabes calls them to attention, making them line up like little children filing out to go stand on stage behind the president. 

*

“I wouldn’t panic, c’mon,” Jonny says as they get in the elevator back in their hotel, categorically unable to let anybody else have the last word. 

“Suuuuuure,” Patrick teases. 

“My masculinity is not weak and fragile, like some other people I could name,” Jonny says loftily. He gives Patrick a significant look. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Patrick replies. “Maybe my masculinity’s so strong I don’t need some stupid game to prove it.” 

Jonny tags his shoulder and Patrick shoves him back. It ends with Patrick in a headlock as the doors open up on their floor. Jonny gives him one last squeeze before letting go, pressing Patrick’s face into his scratchy jacket. Patrick gives him a parting shove. 

It’s true that he’s never played Jonny in gay chicken. Even if Jonny were to let some rookie suck his dick, nobody was ever going to think Jonny was gay, but Patrick, who had been small and pretty most of his life, got his first cocksucker comment during JV basketball tryouts at Detroit Country Day. It’s not like it stopped there either. He’s always tried not to let it affect him. There’s nothing wrong with being gay, his family’s catholic, but they’re also dyed-in-the-wool democrats. It’s not like he’s worried about ‘the homos’ like some shitheads he knows. It’s just—he’s not one and no shade against gay dudes, he’s really never needed some asshole to spread a rumor about Patrick Kane feeling up his captain. Patrick knows what he is, he knows that: 

“I could be balls deep in some dude and still be straight,” he replies as they reach the doors to their adjoining rooms. 

“Oh, is that what they call that?” Jonny mocks, slipping his passkey in the lock. 

Patrick gives him the finger, before disappearing into his own room. Jonny’s being a turd, but that doesn’t stop him from opening the connecting door between their rooms when he gets inside. He hears a click as Jonny does the same. 

Patrick has a routine he likes to conform to, something to stay comfortable in his space. It’s easier now that he has his own room, even if the doors between them are more likely open than not. He likes to get undressed, drink two bottles of water, and then watch tape before knocking off to bed. Sometimes Jonny will come over and they’ll watch a movie, but mostly not. The things they like are too different. But even if they don’t interact, Patrick likes having that door open so he doesn’t feel like he’s rattling around in another sterile faceless hotel room. 

His routine is blown to hell though when Jonny calls, “Do I threaten you, Kaner?” When Patrick looks over at the door, Jonny continues, “You got something you wanna tell me?”

“Yeah! That you’re an asshole,” Patrick replies, stomping into Jonny’s room. He marches right up to him, stepping into his space and reaching up to curl his hand around the back of his neck, just like he’d do if he was trying to direct a chick while making out. 

“Hi,” Jonny replies, hands coming up to frame Patrick’s hips. Point counterpoint, Patrick thinks. If Jonny thinks he can ‘out-straight’ Patrick with this shit, he can think again. This is honestly not that weird. He’s spent a lot of time around Jonny, giving him backslapping hugs and grabbing him by the back of his jersey to get his attention. They might as well be cellying a point on the ice. Totally chill. But then Jonny bends his head, leaning in towards Patrick like he’s going to kiss him. And now yes, it is totally weird, shoved in this close to Jonny, breathing in his cologne and spearmint gum. Jonny’s body gives off heat like a furnace and Patrick is suddenly aware of it from chest to thigh. 

“Are you uncomfortable?” Jonny whispers, nose skimming across Patrick’s cheek. 

“No,” Patrick grits out. “Fuck you.” 

“You sure?” Jonny replies, nuzzling him a little more firmly, lips brushing Patrick’s ear. 

Patrick is just about ready to shake out of his skin at that touch of his mouth. He doesn’t know how Jonny stays so calm when he does this, like it’s no big at all to mack on a teammate. Like it really doesn’t matter to anybody at all. But Patrick doesn’t like losing to Jonny anymore than Jonny likes losing this game. He can put up a better showing than Shawzy, he’s pretty sure, let Jonny know that his bullshit about masculinity or whatever isn’t affecting Patrick at all. 

“Baby, I think I can handle you,” Patrick replies, shoving in a little closer. 

Jonny snorts with laughter, eyes crinkling at the corner. “Oh yeah?” he says. Patrick doesn’t have time to reply before Jonny’s backing him up, thrusting him up against the wall so he’s caged in by Jonny’s body. 

Patrick’s skin feels electric and his heart is pounding. He should just give in and knock Jonny away. He’s gotten further than anybody else he’s seen play this game with Jonny, that should be worth something. Which is why Patrick doesn’t know how to explain why he’s dropping his head back against the wall indolently and widening his stance. 

“This all you got?” he asks, tongue running slowly across his lower lip. 

Jonny pushes one thick thigh between Patrick’s, grinding it upward. Patrick’s breath gets caught in his throat, heartbeat thundering in his temples. Jonny’s expression is unperturbed, serene almost. Patrick has to wonder if he’s meditating his way through this, chanting some mantras about winning. Whatever, fine. If he’s unbothered, Patrick can be unbothered. This is what it’s going to take then—Patrick sticking his tongue down Jonny’s throat. 

He leans up, rubbing his fingers over the short hairs at the back of Jonny’s neck, and closes the distance between their mouths, ready at any moment for Jonny to spring back and declare Patrick the ultimate champion. It’s almost a surprise when their lips meet, but then Jonny inhales and exhales through his nose in a short burst, and Patrick knows what that means. It’s the same bracing breath he takes before bending down for a faceoff. Patrick is so fucked, because, yes, Jonny is going for it. That’s his tongue sweeping across Patrick’s lower lip. 

Patrick shoves at him and Jonny opens his mouth ready to crow out his victory, when Patrick reverses their positions, pinning Jonny’s hands up to the plaster. They flex in Patrick’s grip, but he doesn’t fight him. 

“I don’t lose this game,” he says breathlessly, dark eyes flashing. 

“Oh no?” Patrick mocks, voice sounding steadier than he actually feels as he crowds back in close. “You let me know when you’re done.” 

“Try me,” Jonny replies and Patrick chuckles a little hysterically, unable to believe that he’s still pushing this envelope rather than just letting it go. This has progressed well past cool buddy behavior, especially when he leans back in to kiss Jonny, gripping hard at his wrists. 

Jonny arches against him, pushing their hips together, and Patrick has to face it. He’s making out with Jonny, his teammate of nearly 9 years, against a wall, their mouths sliding together and apart wet and soft. Jonny tastes good, sweet, so sweet Patrick forgets what it is they’re about, forgets enough that when Jonny starts rocking into him he pushes back. He bites at Jonny’s mouth, and Jonny lets out a little moan, pulling away to rest his cheek against the wall. He’s flushed up red, mouth shiny and swollen. 

Patrick’s got an erection is the thing. Thick and inconvenient between his legs, Jonny’s thigh rubbing it to hardness. When he shifts his hips, he comes into contact with Jonny’s. Fuck, he thinks, not without a little panic. Fuck. It’s just friction. Still he finds himself dropping his arms and stumbling back. It’s one thing to kiss your buddy because he thinks you’ll pussy out, it’s another thing to be into it.

“Fuck, okay,” Patrick says, tugging his collar askew. It feels much too tight all of a sudden. “You win.” 

This was so stupid, he thinks, dropping his eyes so that he doesn’t see Jonny still leaning against the wall, suit and hair mussed, looking kissed to hell. What did he gain here? If people knew about this—well he doubts they would think it was just some playacting between him and Captain Serious. 

Jonny clears his throat, and Patrick lets out a breath that feels like the very first one. He needs to get out of here. 

“I’ll just—” he starts, jerking his thumb back to the doorway. 

“Yeah,” Jonny replies. 

He shuts the door between their rooms, which isn’t unusual, because they’re not so hard up to relive old times that they leave it open when they’re sleeping, but this time it feels like punctuation. 

*

Everything seems fine in the morning. Jonny jokes and laughs with the guys and Patrick alike as if nothing has changed at all. Patrick’s still vibrating internally, worrying that it can’t be that simple, it can’t be that simple, over and over in his head. But it is apparently. It’s not like everybody can see what they did written across his face or anything. 

Nobody knows, nobody is going to find out, he tells himself. Everything will be fine. He doesn’t even know why he’s freaking out. This changes nothing. 

And then on the bus, a few days later, Shawzy inexplicably decides to take another run at Jonny. Patrick wouldn’t have even noticed sitting a few rows ahead as he is, engrossed in tossing his tennis ball up and down, but when Shawzy goes for him, Jonny shoves him away, causing a commotion.

“Not now, Shawzy, jesus,” he snaps, slamming his hardback shut and giving Shawzy a swift flick on the ear. 

“Oh my god. Did I win?” Shawzy cries, cellying in the aisle like he’s just scored a highlight reel goal. “Holy shit! I won! Who’s the master now.” 

“What got him to break?” Seabs asks, looking only vaguely interested over his ipad. 

“Weak! So weak, I just stroked his wrist,” Shawzy explains. 

Sudden heat flares down Patrick’s spine, a perfect sense memory of Jonny’s strong wrists caught in his grip. It takes him a moment to realize that Jonny is staring back at him, eyes dark and intent. Patrick quickly turns back around, cheeks burning, and resumes tossing his ball again. Biting his lip, he hopes that nobody notices, especially not Jonny, that his hand is shaking. 

After that he feels Jonny’s proximity in a way he doesn’t usually, hyper-aware of how he gravitates to Jonny on the bench, how he positions himself so that Jonny can skate around him, his tendency to wait idle with him in practice. It’d be weird to stop doing these things. People would know something was up, but he feels like he’s going to jump out of his skin when Jonny so much as meets his eyes. There are _other_ associations in his head now and every look is as palpable as a touch. 

After two days of anxiety he finally breaks, irritated and tense after another horrible loss against the Stars. Sharpy’s his boy, but he wouldn’t mind at all right now if the entire team fell off a cliff. His threshold to deal with anything right now is through the floor. Back in their hotel room, he just can’t handle it anymore when he catches site of Jonny lounging on his bed, his tie loose around his neck and sleeves rolled up around his forearms. He’s intent upon his phone and doesn’t look up when Patrick walks to the door, unknotting his own tie. 

“What the hell, man,” he says, wadding up the tie and shoving it into his pocket. 

Jonny looks up at him, brows raised. “What’s up?”

“Quit it!” Patrick demands. 

“I’m...not...doing anything?” Jonny says tentatively, eyeing at Patrick like he’s crazy. 

“You are,” Patrick bites out, fighting the urge to cross his arms. It was Jonny who told him the move made him look defensive, and he is not. Jonny should be defensive. He should back the fuck off. Maybe he doesn’t have to worry about it, but Patrick does. He’s worked long and hard on his rep, gotten to the place where people don’t automatically reach for some euphemism about getting on his knees when they’re trying to chirp him. 

Jonny puts his phone down with a sigh. “So, what is it that I’m supposedly doing?” 

“The way you’re looking at me—” Patrick flaps his hands at Jonny’s everything. 

“And that makes you uncomfortable?” Jonny says as he gets to his feet, sauntering closer. And damn it, Patrick is feeling pretty damn defensive now, stupid and foolish for bringing this up. He’s making a deal out of it, he realizes, and that’s even weirder. But it shows what Jonny knows, Patrick doesn’t feel _uncomfortable_. He just can’t afford whatever ridiculous game Jonny’s playing. 

“No! Whatever, it’s just weird,” Patrick replies, dropping his eyes. Jonny’s gotten close now, close enough to smell his aftershave and feel the heat radiating off of him. The fine hairs on the back of Patrick’s neck stand up. “Okay, you’re definitely doing something now.” 

“So stop me,” Jonny says, voice low and soft. 

Patrick looks up and meets his eyes prepared to tell him to fuck off, but it’s a mistake, because Jonny does that thing he does, pulling his lower lip into his mouth to wet it and he suddenly, horribly just wants. 

He’s breathing Jonny’s air, chest tight with panicked anticipation, so stupidly nervy he’s nearly shaking. He can count Jonny’s individual eyelashes from this close, see so clearly the way Jonny’s irises shade maroon closer to the pupil. He feels like he’s drowning. He is straight, he is straight, he is straight. Patrick likes girls, he’s never had to convince himself of that. He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on right now. Or why the hell he isn’t shoving and laughing at Jonny. Telling him to keep his stupid mitts to himself. 

“I’m gonna do this,” Jonny says, hands coming up to cup Patrick’s jaw and Patrick _doesn’t_ stop him. No, he wraps Jonny’s disheveled tie around his fist before Jonny can get any further and pulls him in the last few inches, eyes sliding shut as their lips meet. Patrick’s wound so tight and all of that irritation is spilling out as arousal. He’s got his hands on Jonny, with a visceral slideshow of pornographic images running through his brain—Jonny spreading for him, Jonny letting him fuck him into the mattress, Jonny moaning as Patrick makes him come. He pulls away on a shaky gasp, but Jonny follows him, nipping at his lower lip, catching the full swell of it between his teeth in way that just barely escapes pain. 

He soothes it better with his tongue, rubbing circles on the hinges of Patrick’s jaw with his thumbs. This kissing—shit. Patrick’s not going to lie to himself and say he doesn’t like it, but he wishes he didn’t. He wishes he weren’t rubbing himself up on Jonny like a horny teenager. 

“Get on the bed,” he hears himself hoarsely order Jonny. Jonny stares at him, unmoving, blinking those absurdly long eyelashes at him. Patrick waits, heart is his throat, but finally Jonny does it, backing up onto his bed, letting Patrick kneel over him when he’s settled on the pillows. 

Patrick’s never fooled around with a guy. He’s got no idea about Jonny, but he doesn’t think Jonny has either. For all his projected self-assurance, Patrick can feel Jonny’s heart beating hard under the palms he’s got on his chest. They’ve got no roadmap here. So he does what he would with a chick, pulling the buttons of Jonny’s shirt free of the holes and spreading it wide over the hard slabs of his pecks as smooth and hairless as any girls. He’s still got his tie and sport coat on, and the wide eyes he’s got aimed on Patrick hits him in the gut. He looks down where he’s kneeling over Jonny’s waist, and his cock is swollen in his trousers, totally unavoidable, the shape obscene through the fabric. 

Patrick lets out a breath that whistles through his teeth before winding his hand in Jonny’s tie again, pulling just enough that Jonny arches his neck, teeth sinking into his lower lip, like he likes the quick clamping squeeze of the silk around his neck. Patrick waits for Jonny to do something, to tell him to stop or take over, but he doesn’t do anything more than hold Patrick’s gaze, lips parting as Patrick pulls the tie a little tighter. He lets Patrick kiss him like that, letting out a heavy gasp right into Patrick’s mouth when Patrick lets the tie go slack. 

His chest and cheeks have gone all flushed, nipples turning into peaks that beg for Patrick’s mouth. He wants to ask why Jonny is letting him do this: spread him out and debauch him on a hotel bed like he’s one of Patrick’s hookups. What does that make him? What does that make Patrick? He knows why Jonny always wins. The other guys think it changes something about you to be touching a guy, but it doesn’t. Only if you like it. 

For the moment the heavy weight of his cock does his thinking for him, and he bends his head to lick a stripe over Jonny’s nipple, tonguing the hard nub delicately before pulling it into his mouth. Jonny doesn’t make a sound, but he goes tense everywhere, hands at last lifting to card through Patrick’s curls, pushing one back behind his ear. Patrick abruptly fiercely wants him on his dick. 

“C’mon, Peeks,” Jonny says. 

Patrick groans and rolls off of him, throwing his arm over his eyes. The stretch and drag of his pants over his cock is enough to have him biting back a sound of distress. He doesn’t realize he’s still got Jonny’s tie in his grip until Jonny shifts onto his side. Patrick can’t help himself. He hooks his fingers underneath the tie where it lies flat against Jonny’s throat, watching his eyelashes flutter as he thumbs along it. 

Jonny leans in pressing a kiss to Patrick’s mouth before he rolls out of bed, going to the bathroom and shutting the door with a finality that signals the moment is over. Patrick lies in his bed for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling, willing his breathing to slow. They took a wrong turn somewhere and he doesn’t know how to get back on the road. 

He leaves, going back to his room before Jonny is out of the bathroom. 

*

Patrick just doesn’t dwell on it. It was what it was. Some bullshit in a hotel room. He didn’t have any trouble jerking off to the thought of coming all over Kate Upton’s tits. No problems there. So it’s time to put this shit in the box and move on. He’s got enough to worry about when their play starts to dip. His own production has slowed—the Hawks are relying on him to score and he’s having increasing trouble finding the back of the net. The hardest thing, he thinks, is how heavily he and Jonny are leaned upon to talk to reporters in the Post-Games. It takes something out of him to have to face up to the increasing rain of questions about what they did wrong and everything they need to improve. 

Another home game goes down the toilet, this time to the Flyers. Patrick feels very nearly unwell, staticky and frustrated inside his own head, and tired. So so so tired. He’s been standing at this urinal in the locker room for what seems like forever, long after everybody’s cleared out, trying to piss, but nothing’s coming. He’s so focused on himself, on holding the tears burning at the corners of his eyes inside, that he doesn’t register the footsteps coming from behind him—Jonny’s familiar tread. He must not have left. Patrick very nearly jumps out of his skin when Jonny’s arms come up around him. 

“Shh,” Jonny whispers against his throat, lips skimming just under his ear. Patrick considers yelling at him, he’s standing with his dick out, practically vibrating from the need to piss, but Jonny wraps his hand around Patrick’s, fingers slotting between his knuckles, and something inside him just lets go, a long stream finally hitting the porcelain. It feels so good after holding it for so long that he can’t help groaning, head lolling back on Jonny’s shoulder, horribly relieved breaths spilling out of his mouth. When he’s finished Jonny lets go, allowing Patrick to shake it, before helping to tuck him back inside his slacks, smoothing a hand up Patrick’s belly after he tucks the button through its loop. 

Patrick bites at his lip, wondering what he’s going to say. It doesn’t matter, because Jonny steps away, going to the sink to wash his hands. Patrick’s watching him over his shoulder and their eyes meet in the mirror, sharing a long look before Jonny shuts the tap off to dry his hands. 

He leaves without saying goodbye. Patrick supposes he’s beaten Jonny twice now. If they were still counting. If you could even call this a game. 

*

In Winnipeg, the heater in his hotel room breaks in the middle of the night. His phone says it’s 18 degrees outside, and even though he knows it’s definitely not that cold in the room, it feels like it. He wraps himself in the extra blankets off the second bed, but even that isn’t enough, and after a while he’s so cold that he aches. It’s like he’s reliving the remnants of every old injury he’s ever had. 

Finally he gives up. Maybe he can sleep in the extra bed in Jonny’s room, or steal some of the blankets. Luckily the door isn’t locked when he tries it, but as his eyes adjust to the gloom it comes with the unwelcome realization that there’s only a king in Jonny’s suite. And Jonny’s already in it, shirtless at the very least, covers down around his waist. 

“Fuck,” he says, despite himself, accidentally letting go of the weighted door in surprise. It slams behind him with a noise that nobody could miss. Patrick curses and feels instantly contrite, because he knows how Jonny struggles with insomnia and waking him up when he’s managed to fall asleep would be awful. 

“What are you doing?” Jonny mutters into his pillow, a little grumpy, but clearly not asleep. This must be one of the bad nights then. 

“Sorry if I woke you. The heat’s broke in my room,” Patrick explains. “I thought maybe I could crash in the extra bed, but…” 

“But I don’t have one,” Jonny replies shortly, turning over with a sigh.

“I’ll just go back, sorry about this,” Patrick says awkwardly. “Do you mind if I steal the extra blankets?” Meaning the ones piled up at the foot of Jonny’s bed. 

“Jesus, just stay, this thing’s fuckin’ gargantuan,” Jonny grumbles. 

Patrick’s freezes, eyes darting towards the door to his room before falling back on Jonny. It’s a testament to how cold he is that he’s even willing to consider it, but his nose feels like it’s about to fall off, and he imagines waking up tomorrow for skate tired and sore from shivering all night. The decision is easy. 

Jonny’s right, the bed is really big, probably wide enough for him to spread out a little and still not touch him. It’s warm from Jonny lying in it when Patrick slides under the covers on the opposite side. Patrick flexes his frozen fingers, curling inwards as soon as he has the blankets drawn up to his chin. Unfortunately he doesn’t thaw easy, not after being cold for so long. His fingers and toes hurt and he can’t stop shivering, shaking hard enough that Jonny groans. 

“Quit it,” he mumbles. 

Patrick snorts. “Princess.” 

That gets Jonny rolling over toward Patrick. Somehow he misjudges the distance in this ocean of a bed and bumps right into him, but Jonny rolls with it and uses the moment to poke Kaner hard in the side. “I mean it, loser.” 

Patrick doesn’t know why that makes him laugh, but he does, snickering through his nose. He elbows Jonny in the side in retaliation. 

“Personal space, Tazer, learn it.” 

Turns out that the years can pass, but nothing else will ever really change, because Jonny picks up a pillow and thumps Patrick with it, setting off a chain reaction of shoving that quickly turns into grappling, hampered though they are by the covers. At first Patrick is winning, holding Jonny off. Jonny’s tired and a little lethargic, but he starts to wake up, getting a bit quicker, trying to snare Patrick’s hands. Patrick gets Jonny in the gut, kicking his legs to keep Jonny from pinning him, but his early advantage is lost when Jonny grabs at his hands and slams him flat to the bed with a bone-jarring thump. 

“Ugh,” Patrick gasps out, because Jonny is laying on top of him, and it feels like all 200 pounds of him are resting on his nuts. 

“What did you want to tell me about personal space?” Jonny quips. 

Patrick rolls his eyes, still straining against Jonny’s hold. 

“Get off,” he says putting up a struggle that’s more token than real. Everything sort of slots together just right, and now Patrick’s grunting, because that’s Jonny’s dick brushing his dick. He’s hard—hot and unmistakable even through the fabric. 

Patrick lies frozen, staring up at Jonny with wide eyes, and he stares back, teeth sunk into his lower lip, sheepish almost. Jonny shifts against him, bringing them into aching contact, and he’s lost, reaching up to brush his lips over Jonny’s, slipping him his tongue when Jonny parts them. Jonny’s hands slacken on his wrists and Patrick could knock him off, but he doesn’t. Kissing Jonny is dirty, wet, Patrick feels it in his gut, heat growing in his belly. He feels drunk on it, overwhelmed. 

Jonny lets go and pulls up, and Patrick hates himself for the sound of protest that he makes. With a surety Patrick doesn’t understand, Jonny reaches between them, fingers curling in the waistband of Patrick’s boxers, nails running over the sensitive thin skin. 

“Okay?” he says, asking for the first time since they started all this. 

Patrick can’t see anything, they’re under the covers and it’s dark, but he lets out a long breath before nodding. Jonny drags them down, before doing the same thing to himself and when his hand comes back, it’s to clasp them together, big hand curled around them both in a way that makes Patrick throw his head back on the pillow, spitting out oaths. 

“Shh,” Jonny says, bracing himself with one arm on the pillow next to Patrick’s head as he starts to stroke. Patrick pushes the covers off enough that it lets a sliver of moonlight in, and then Patrick can see Jonny thick and hard against him, the plump head bumping up against the flared crown of Patrick’s cock. When Jonny drags his palm up, wrapping tight around the wet tips, Patrick shudders, fullbody. He imagines for a moment the DP porn he’s seen, the two cocks shoved in all tight, bumping together. 

“Oh god,” Patrick says, dropping his head back to the pillows. Jonny drags his hand back down, this time squeezing at the base. It’s hot under the covers now, they’re both sweating, slip-sliding together, Patrick’s breathing out in big huffing gasps, and he must be making too much noise for Jonny’s liking, because Jonny kisses him again, muffling Patrick’s groans with his tongue. 

Patrick reaches around Jonny's hips. He’s still got his shorts on, the waistband dragged halfway down his ass and Patrick shoves it down a little further to squeeze the generous fullness of Jonny’s cheeks, urging Jonny even closer to him. He’s not sure what he’s even doing when he spreads them wide, moving his fingers to stroke over Jonny’s hole, pushing in a little before withdrawing. Jonny bites at him and Patrick pushes in a little harder. Slippery as they both are with sweat, he thinks he can work one inside. Jonny tears his mouth away and looks down at him, wild-eyed and fever bright, like he knows exactly what Patrick wants. 

He presses at that tight furl of muscle again, a steady pressure, slowly forcing his middle finger inside until it’s sunk to the second knuckle. It’s so tight that Patrick can barely go any further. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jonny says, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re gonna make me—” he doesn’t even get to finish the sentence. Jonny falls over the edge, hand still going, smearing his come all over Patrick’s cock, a slick mess between them. He lets out a ragged spent breath, face creased like he’s in pain. Patrick doesn’t know what to do, he’s lying there, covered in Jonathan Toews’ come, cock throbbing in his hand, but Jonny doesn’t even give him time to think. 

He resituates himself with a sigh, leaning back in to brush their lips together. When he starts his hand back up, Patrick can’t help fucking up into his fist, so focused on it he doesn’t have the wherewithal to do more than breathe into Jonny’s mouth. Jonny’s teasing him, doing filthy things with his hand. He runs a finger in slow circles over the slit, treating his cockhead like it’s a clit. Patrick breaks the kiss to push the covers back a little further, giving him a good view of Jonny working his dick. 

“Shit,” he curses, hands coming up to fist tight in the pillows, trying to tether himself to something solid while Jonny steadily jacks him off. 

“C’mon, Peeksy,” Jonny whispers. “Give it up for me, baby.” 

Patrick can’t handle it. Not those words in that voice. The same way Jonny calls out encouragement to him when he’s setting up for the shootout or when Patrick’s on the breakaway, streaking by the bench. 

He arches, sudden and involuntary, spilling over Jonny’s fist and his own belly in thick, wet jets. Jonny’s eyes are on him, seeing everything that Patrick wishes he could hide. He turns his face into the pillow so that he doesn’t have to see that look. 

Jonny gets out of bed with a groan, padding to the bathroom. Patrick lays there, collapsed, chest heaving, listening to the sink run with half an ear. Filled with a pleasant languor that remains unbroken when Jonny comes back. Drifting a little, dozing, he gets shocked back to reality hard when Jonny slaps a wet towel down over his belly before crawling back in on his side of the bed. 

“Dick,” he mutters. Jonny snorts, but doesn’t otherwise respond. 

The last thing Patrick remembers before succumbing to sleep is thinking at least he’s not cold anymore, mopping at his stomach and pubes halfheartedly before tossing the towel onto the floor. 

*

He wakes up the next morning to Jonny’s alarm. He feels none the worse for wear, but he’s definitely in need of a shower. Jonny groans into his pillow and fiddles with the snooze button, accidentally turning the alarm off rather than pausing it for another five minutes of sleep. Patrick yawns, shaking his head at him.

Jonny digs his face into his pillow and doesn’t get up. Patrick knows this chain of events quite well. 

“Get up,” Patrick orders, reaching over to swat Jonny’s shoulder before stumbling over to Jonny’s en suite to take a piss, not bothering to shut the door. He doesn’t say what’s on the tip of his tongue: we shouldn’t do this again, because that solidifies it into something real. It was what it was. They got off. Sometimes shit happens. 

When he walks back out after washing his hands, Jonny’s rolled over onto his back, covers pushed down around his waist revealing his bare chest. Patrick shifts his eyes away. Something on Jonny’s phone must be funny, because he’s chuckling at it. 

“What’s up with you?” 

Jonny stops laughing and sits up in bed, suddenly brusque and businesslike. “It’s just, I have an app on my phone to track how well I sleep,” he says. 

Patrick rolls his eyes, of course he does. “And this is hilarious because?” 

“I slept really well last night,” he says matter-of-fact as he swings his legs down over the edge of the mattress. 

“You—” Patrick goggles at him, struck dumb. Whatever, it was freezing last night, all of this stupid messing around is just that, messing around. But it’s hard to look at it that way when he’s thinking about fucking Jonny to the point where he can finally fall asleep. Because he is now—in great detail. Jesus H. 

“It’s just relieving tension. The same thing happens when I jerk it before bed too.” Jonny shrugs and moves past him to go to the bathroom. “I’m gonna take a shower.” 

Patrick stands still, words stoppered up in his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say. Not that Jonny waits for a reply. Either way, they can’t be fucking around like this, they both know that. What if somebody were to find them? But Patrick aches to follow Jonny into the bathroom and demolish him, make him lose it because Patrick’s giving it to him so good. 

Patrick fists his hands, letting out a deep breath. He hast to curb the urge to throw something, preferably Jonny’s phone. He settles for hurling a pillow at the offending heater when he’s back in his room. 

*

Bi is just something that college hipsters claim they are, or closeted gay dudes who aren’t ready to commit 100% to dick yet. Chicks can be bi. Everybody knows sex is more cerebral for them or whatever. Patrick isn’t some artsy band geek trying to fit into a circle of David Bowie-loving wannabes. And he’s sure as fuck not closeted. His fantasy Kate Upton knows it well. He doesn’t know what’s going on. Jonny’s got him all confused. But a hand is a hand and a mouth is a mouth, and as long as it never happens again, he doesn’t have to think about it any harder than that. 

If he ignores Jonny for a little bit, so be it. Whatever you call it, they need space. Patrick will give it a little time, a little distance. Whatever is happening because of that stupid game can work itself out of their systems and everybody can move on. Patrick had a horrifying nightmare about having sex with his aunt when he was seventeen and he sure as fuck doesn’t want to go anywhere near that. Sometimes weird fucked up crap just comes into your brain. Life goes on. 

He’s not thinking anything of it a week later when they go out after they trounce the Flames. He’s just out to have a couple of laughs with the boys and then hit the hay before they head to Vancouver tomorrow morning. He and Jonny haven’t been talking much beyond what needs to get said during games and practice. It doesn’t really feel different, except that the door has been closed between their rooms and sometimes Patrick finds something funny and goes to text him and has to stop himself. He didn’t even realize how much he was constantly in communication with Jonny until the timestamp on the last message sent is increasingly further in the past. 

Some leggy blonde has caught Jonny’s attention at the bar, great smile, decent rack—that’s how it should be. And yet he feels irritated just watching them flirt. 

“Yo, I’m hungry, anybody wanna grab some food before heading back?” Shawzy asks as he swallows down the last of his beer. 

Patrick shrugs. “I could eat.” 

They go out for late night pizza at a place that Laddy recommends called Awesome Kitchen. Patrick is skeptical of any place that goes by the name Awesome Kitchen, but it’s within easy walking distance and it turns out the pizza really is good, so points for Laddy. 

“What’s with you?” Shawzy asks in the middle of stuffing his face. 

Patrick stares at him, fascinated, amazed at how much he’s cramming into his mouth. “What do you mean?” 

“You’ve been all mopey and shit,” Shawzy replies. “Is this about not scoring? Because you’re still having the best season of your career, you big baby.” 

“I am not moping, c’mon,” Patrick replies. “And I could always be better. It’s like Tazer says, the only person you have to beat on the ice is yourself.” 

Shawzy rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why everybody thinks he’s the only insane one. You’re just as bad.” 

“At wanting to win? Hell yes, I want to win.” 

“Well, don’t hurt yourself. You don’t want to end up squeezing your stick too hard,” Shawzy replies. “I know how tough it is to work out of a slump. Don’t be like me.” 

Patrick raises his brows at him. He knows they put Shawzy next to Patrick in the dressing room because they wanted to knock him down a few pegs. Which okay, Patrick has a healthy ego. He knows this also. But there was still a time that Shawzy, crass and rambunctious as he was, treated Patrick with enthusiastic awe. Now it appears he’s trying to dole out advice like Patrick’s dad. 

Shawzy’s face falls at Patrick’s unimpressed look. “Too much?” he asks. 

“A little,” Patrick replies with a snort. “You should save it for the youngsters who are still impressed with you, mutt.” 

“Hey! I do know about slumps.” 

“Okay, yoda,” Patrick replies, cleaning his side of the table up after finishing his slice. He gives Shawzy a playful shove on his way to the garbage can. 

*

Back in his room, he realizes the connecting door is open. Patrick pauses and stares at it, hard. What’s Jonny playing at? That fucking connecting door is how all of this happened. He’s almost startled when Jonny walks into view, a towel around his waist, wet from a shower. 

He looks over, spotting Patrick. “Hey,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. 

“You didn’t go home with the blonde?” Patrick asks, heart racing. Jesus christ. Just look away. That’s all he has to do is look away. 

Jonny shakes his head. “Wasn’t interested.” 

“Why not?” Patrick demands, tongue coming out to wet his lower lip. 

Jonny lifts his chin, holding his gaze. After a moment, he drops the towel, standing naked before Patrick. He knows how good he looks—sharp cut muscles, pretty cock, shaved bare like a porn star. 

“Damn it, Jonny,” Patrick says, scrubbing his hand across his face. “All I can think about—ALL I can think about is all those years spent with you tossing and turning in the next bed, waking up the next morning to find you looking like hell—I could’ve put my cock in you and made you come to make it better.” 

“Who says I want that?” Jonny replies. 

“You do want that,” Patrick replies, as sure as he’s ever been about anything. 

“Are you man enough to give it to me? Or are you still a scared little bitch?” Jonny says, voice even. He shakes his head and turns his back, suddenly derisive. “Can’t even face up to the fact that you want me, that I make you hot.” 

Patrick’s eyes follow the columns of muscle along his spine, the solid traps, and the shifting sculpted muscles in his ass. 

Patrick takes a deep breath, crossing the threshold between their rooms to come up behind Jonny. “It doesn’t make sense,” he says, hands sliding down over Jonny’s hips, fingertips light on Jonny’s smooth skin. 

“Who say it needs to?” Jonny asks, turning in the circle of his arms. 

Patrick inhales sharply, a fierce inexplicable pain in his chest. He kisses Jonny, though he knows it will make that pain worse. He kisses Jonny because even so, nothing feels better than this. Jonny accepts it with a sigh. When Patrick walks him back to the stand the TV is sitting on, pressing his fully clothed body to Jonny’s naked one, he goes easily enough, widening his thighs so that Patrick can stand between them. It gets away from them, as it always seems to do, turning wet and fierce, Patrick holding Jonny’s head between his hands, keeping him just where he wants him. He could do Jonny just like this, up against the furniture. That’s what they’ve come to. There’s no denying it anymore. 

Patrick pulls back eventually, meeting Jonny’s eyes. 

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he says, cupping a hand on Jonny’s jaw. “But you know that.” 

Jonny huffs out a laugh. 

“And…” Patrick swallows, dry throat clicking. It’s a struggle to say the next bit, “And I do want to fuck you.” 

“You uh...need stuff for that,” Jonny replies, flushed and fiddling with one of the buttons on Patrick’s dress shirt. Patrick notes that it extends down his chest. “I don’t have any of it.” Jonny straightens up slightly, giving Patrick a gentle push so he can walk by, heading back to the bathroom. “When we get home,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “If you still want to, you know where I’ll be.” 

The tap starts running, Jonny must be doing his elaborate nightly skin routine and Patrick knows the conversation is over. 

*

When they finally head home, two more wins and one incredibly shitty loss to the Wild under their belts, it feels like they’ve lost the moment. He keeps thinking he’s crazy to even consider this. He doesn’t know how Jonny can be so nonchalant about it. Just offer like that, act like it’s all so easy. 

He wants to ask. It’s forever on the tip of his tongue, so loud in his head it echoes, but he has no idea how. It’s stupid, maybe, but he feels shy about it. With just some random hookup, he wouldn’t care what they thought. Either they were into it or they weren’t. Very simple. But with Jonny...he hasn’t had to ask any of the other times, he didn’t even want to, and now that he does, he doesn’t know how to go about it. 

He’s not thinking about it late Friday night. He hit 40 goals, hallelujah, and he’s tired and sore. All he wants is a handful of extra strength Advil and his bed. Jonny’s got his busted ear and he looks equally exhausted when he slides into the seat next to Patrick’s on the plane. But it doesn’t take long until the creeping awareness of Jonny—the splay of his thighs, fabric of his pants pulled tight over their bulk, the strong forearms bared by his rolled up sleeves—is permeating everything. He looks up from his book, but Jonny’s not paying any attention to him as he gets settled. 

Shawzy’s in the row across from them, and he’s talking some smack to Jonny. Patrick snorts when he realizes it’s about Shawzy’s gay chicken win over Jonny a few weeks ago. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t challenge you again. I know you’re still smarting over your last loss,” Shawzy says, wiggling his fingers. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jonny says. Patrick nearly swallows his tongue when Jonny drops his palm on Patrick’s knee. 

“Going for Kaner, eh?” 

“He’ll crack eventually,” Jonny replies, stroking over Patrick’s kneecap. 

“Dream on,” Patrick responds lamely, raising his book up in front of his face. 

Jonny keeps it up the entire two-hour flight, hand absently playing along Patrick’s inseam while he reads his own book. It’s relatively innocent. Jonny isn’t even pushing it, sometimes he gets a little higher up on Patrick’s thigh, rubbing loose circles with his fingertips, but he always drops his hands back down again. By the end though Patrick’s hard enough to pound nails and he has to keep pulling on his pant leg to try and hide it. 

“Looks like Kaner’s still holding firm,” Shawzy says, looking over at them. 

Jonny’s hand slides dangerously close to his dick. Patrick thumps his head back against the seat, unable to stop himself from letting out a little caught groan. Jonny’s eyes dart over to meet his, tongue flickering out over his lower lip, before he carefully coasts his hand back down 

“It’s proving unexpectedly hard,” Jonny replies, voice regular, nothing to give away the innuendo he just tossed out there. Patrick glares at him, gritting his teeth. Fuck, he should just knock Jonny’s hand off. It’s not like he actually cares about winning. 

He doesn’t make Jonny move his hand. 

When they touch down, Jonny gets to his feet like nothing happened, tossing his book back into his carry on and taking his phone off airplane-mode to check his messages. 

Patrick comes up behind him to shove in close, hands biting at Jonny’s hips. He pitches his voice low so the guys can’t hear, “If you think I’m not fucking you through your fancy-ass mattress for this, you can fucking well think again.” 

Jonny turns his head. “When?” he asks. 

Patrick licks his lips and breathes out. “Tonight.” 

*

Because he drives like a maniac, it’s no surprise that Jonny beats Patrick back to his place. He answers the door when Patrick rings dressed in sweats and a t-shirt. 

“Didn’t know if you’d actually show,” he says softly, hands coming up to fiddle with his stitched-up ear before he remembers and drops it. 

Patrick chews at his lower lip. He sticks by what he said to Jonny last Saturday. This doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t change what he wants. “You gonna let me in?” 

Jonny at last steps back from the door, disappearing back into the house and leaving Patrick to follow. 

In Jonny’s bedroom, he watches him strip off his clothes unselfconsciously and lay himself flat on the bed. Patrick decides, looking at the elegant lines of muscle along his spine, tapering down to the voluptuous ass, to take his time, pay him back for 135 minutes of teasing on that fucking plane. 

“Stuff in the nightstand,” Jonny says, resting his cheek on his folded arms. 

Patrick’s still undoing his own buttons, carefully folding his clothes into a pile on a chair. He stops when he’s down to his boxers, going to tug the drawer open. There’s lube and condoms in there thrown in with everything else.

“You…” he stops and has to sit down at the edge of the bed, gut suffusing with heat. 

Jonny and Patrick don’t wear the same condoms. Back in their rookie season after a game in Philly Jonny unexpectedly had the chance to score with just about the hottest little blonde Patrick had ever seen in real life, but he hadn’t had any protection on him, so Patrick spotted him. Jonny had looked down at the foil packet incredulously when he’d handed it over. 

“Magnums? Seriously?” 

Patrick had shrugged. He knew he wasn’t buying them to impress the checkout girl at Walgreens. 

Jonny had reported later that it was like wearing a garbage bag on his dick. So unless Jonny’s developed a fondness for the garbage bag sensation, these were meant for Patrick. 

“How long have you had these?” he asks running his finger around the edge of the cardboard box. 

“Don’t read into it,” Jonny replies. 

Patrick bites back a smile. Bullshit, ‘don’t read into it.’ Jonny bought these before he and Patrick had even had that conversation in Calgary. Patrick sets the box aside, cracking the seal on the lube and pouring some into his hand, he rubs his fingers together, spreading it around. It’s quality stuff, leave it to Jonny. 

He pours some more on Jonny’s cheeks, making him tense up and hiss before Patrick drags the slick down into his cleft, rubbing at his hole. Jonny shifts his head on his arms, meeting Patrick’s eyes. Patrick pushes down, fingers dipping in, and Jonny breathes in, a quick inhale, before he draws his lower lip into his mouth. 

“How do you know you’ll like this?” Patrick asks, ashamed when his voice comes out hoarse. 

Jonny buries his head into his arms, flexing back into the press of Patrick’s fingers until he’s got one sunk to the first knuckle. “I don’t.” 

Patrick has to pause, momentarily taken aback with everything that Jonny is trusting him with. This could be a fucking disaster. Patrick is not small. Jonny could hate it. So he’s careful. It takes him a long time to work his middle finger all the way in, drawing it in and out, trying to work as much lube in as he can, before he fits his ring finger in alongside it. Jonny’s back tenses up and he lets out a soft noise, the same sound Patrick’s overheard when a trainer’s found a knotted muscle. 

“Hurts?” he asks. 

“No,” he replies, cheeks all pink. “Definitely doesn’t hurt.” 

Patrick has to bend to kiss him then, stretching out alongside Jonny, still very carefully working his fingers in and out. Jonny breathes wetly into his mouth, moaning suddenly when Patrick pushes in a little deeper, running into something. 

“Is that it?” Patrick asks pulling back, leaving his head on the pillow next to Jonny. 

Jonny huffs out a laugh that turns into a gasp when Patrick pushes down again, deliberately this time. Patrick holds Jonny’s gaze, lying there next to him on the pillow. There’s something amazing about being able to watch Jonny’s eyes as they shade darker, pupil swallowing iris, lashes fluttering when Patrick gets him just right. 

“Feels good,” Jonny tells him. 

Patrick props himself up on his elbow to watch his fingers thrust in and out. Jonny’s shiny and reddened rim clings to his knuckles. “Fuck, I want in you so bad. Can you take a third, baby?” 

The endearment just slips out as natural as breathing. 

Jonny shudders and shifts. “Yeah, yeah, okay.” 

Patrick draws his fingers back to push three of them in together. Jonny rears up a little, hiding his face in the pillows. “Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he says, muffled. 

“My cock’s thicker than this, you gonna be able to take it?” 

Jonny pushes back against Patrick’s hand, making himself cry out and tense. “Yes,” he sobs. 

“Jonny,” Patrick says helplessly. He keeps fucking him with his fingers until he starts to feel Jonny clench down. He ducks in close, brushing a kiss over Jonny’s eyebrow. “Feels like you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself.” 

Jonny laughs breathlessly. “Don’t think I can come from just this.” 

“Gonna let me catch up to you?” Patrick asks while rubbing his fingers hard over Jonny’s prostate, liking the way it makes Jonny’s buttocks tighten, as if he needs to brace himself against the pleasure. 

“Maybe if you ask real nice,” Jonny says with his eyes closed, lips kicking up in the corner. 

“Please let me fuck you,” Patrick asks easily enough, nipping Jonny on the shoulder.

Jonny nods with his eyes still closed, making a soft sound when Patrick withdraws his fingers. 

Patrick pushes himself upright, turning back to the box of condoms he left on the nightstand. Jonny turns over onto his back with a creaking groan, an easy reminder that they’re doing this hours after a game. One where Winnipeg, in typical fashion, had played at their most physical. While Patrick tears the condom open, Jonny presses his swollen cock to his belly, thumb skating over the head. Patrick pauses for a moment, mouth filling with spit, watching the motion of Jonny’s hand as he plays with himself. It doesn’t make sense, echoes back through his head. He never thought he’d be turned on at the sight of another man’s dick. 

“Peeks,” Jonny says, tongue at the corner of his mouth, watching Patrick with knowing eyes. It snaps Patrick back into the moment. They’re doing this, he couldn’t back out now if he tried. He skins out of his briefs and rolls the condom down on his shaft, squeezing at the base, just giving himself a moment. 

“Do you want—like this?” Patrick gestures at Jonny lying on his back. He’s ashamed that he desperately wants Jonny to say yes. It’s not like the position means anything, he doesn’t need to look deep inside Jonny’s eyes or whatever, but Patrick has enough of an ego that he wants to watch the expression on his face when he gets his cock in him, see if it’s that same shocked little moue he’d made when Patrick had fingered him. 

Jonny nods. “Better this way, right?” 

The way he says it, Patrick can tell it’s a real question. He presses his lips together and nods even though he’s got no idea. 

Jonny digs his head back into the pillow as Patrick knee-walks over to him, fitting himself between Jonny’s thighs. He keeps his hand on his cock, slowly stroking up and down, grip loose as Patrick grabs his thigh, pushing his leg back towards his chest to open him wide. He’s got that same serene expression back, as he lazily pulls his foreskin up over the swollen head before tugging it back down. Patrick needs to get this show on the road or he’ll wind up jerking it, just watching Jonny do the same.

At last nudging his cock against Jonny’s hole, he fascinatedly watches it slide across the shiny pucker of muscle. He pauses for a breath, looking down at Jonny’s face, his chewed pink lips, the flush down his chest, honestly amazed that they’re about to do this. Cock in hand, he presses the tip to Jonny’s rim, gently easing his cock forward. When Jonny’s rim gives, swallowing him inside, Jonny’s hands fly up to his shoulders, and Patrick halts his progress. 

“Okay?” he asks, strained, barely holding it together, the pressure on the sensitive head intense, enough to make him think he wouldn’t need much more than this. 

Jonny furrows his brow, taking several deep breaths in and out, before he finally nods. Patrick knows what his next step is; he doesn’t want to hurt him, but he’s also got some experience dealing with Jonny. He thrusts the last of the way home in a quick jerk that makes Jonny cry out, turning his face into the pillow as if to hide it, even as his body seems to melt under Patrick’s, going easy and pliable. 

“Shi-i-it,” Patrick stutters out, pressing his forehead to Jonny’s shoulder, trying to hold himself still. 

Jonny brings a hand up, tangling in the curls at the nape of Patrick’s neck, stroking as if Patrick’s the one who just got drilled. He says, “You can.” 

Patrick could cry when he finally gathers the wherewithal to move, plunging himself into the tight clasp of Jonny’s body. Setting up a rhythm, he measures out each stroke, determined to make this good for Jonny, because it’s really fucking good for Patrick. Too good. He sucks in a breath and pushes himself up onto his palms so he can watch his cock pierce Jonny open. They strain together, the ripple of Jonny’s abs strongly apparent as he holds himself firm against Patrick’s thrusts, Patrick’s own core working to keep him steady. Jesus they look amazing, bodies made to fit like this. 

“Ohhh,” Jonny whispers brokenly, spreading his thighs wider, somehow letting Patrick further in. Patrick skims a kiss over Jonny’s parted lips, drawing the one he’s been abusing so much with his teeth into his mouth. 

“You’re perfect,” he says, sweat rising all along his back, spine tingling. “Oh, god, you’re perfect.” 

“It’s not quite—the angle,” Jonny replies, never one to hesitate with constructive criticism, and yet somehow lost for words. 

Patrick nods, squeezing his eyes shut tight. With each thrust he starts lingering on the downstroke, pushing his cock in as far as Jonny can take him, again and then again, until Jonny starts making pleased hungry noises. He gets his palms on Patrick’s ass, urging him along, gasping when Patrick finds the spot to nail him just right. Patrick gets his knees under him, angling his dick more towards Jonny’s belly the way Jonny seems to like it and Jonny gratifyingly starts up a litany of swearing, squeezing down vice-like in a way that has Patrick seeing stars. 

“I’m not going to be able to keep this up,” Patrick tells him regretfully. 

Jonny lets out a little amused rumble, drawing Patrick back down. He says against Patrick’s mouth, “That’s okay, baby, I want you to come,” before kissing him hard and firm. Patrick grabs Jonny’s hands up, pinning his wrists to the pillows, hips speeding up almost against his will. Jonny arches his spine, accepting each dirty thrust. He tells him, “Yeah, c’mon, do it” 

With a low groan, Patrick empties himself inside Jonny, their foreheads pressed together. 

“Wish I could feel it,” Jonny whispers as each pulsing shock judders through Patrick’s body. 

He remains still, cock shoved up inside Jonny until he feels like can breathe again, and even then he lingers, until Jonny makes a noise of protest, reminding Patrick that he’s still hard against his belly, waiting his turn. 

Patrick sits back on his heels, palms underneath Jonny’s ass, rapt upon the sight of his cock withdrawing from Jonny’s body. Jonny’s rim is swollen, abused, and Patrick can’t help thumbing at it. Jonny twists and groans, staring up at Patrick from under his eyelashes. He stops breathing when Patrick pushes two fingers back in. 

“Touch yourself,” Patrick orders smoothing his other hand over Jonny’s knee. Jonny hesitates for a moment, like he’s too caught up in the motion of Patrick’s fingers to pay attention to anything else, but he gets his hand on his cock and starts up a rhythm, fist dragging from base to tip, slowly working himself. Patrick bets he likes to tease himself, when he does this on his own, make himself work for it. Patrick curls his fingers in in in, seeking that swollen nub of a gland. He presses at it over and over until he feels that muscular contraction tamping down on his knuckles. Jonny’s mouth opens, eyes going wide in something like shock. 

“Please,” he says, and Patrick doesn’t know what he wants, but he curls down over him, thrusting his tongue past Jonny’s lips. It’s a wet smear of a kiss, Jonny’s attention split, but Patrick keeps at it, tasting Jonny’s moans as he comes all over himself. 

Patrick sits back a second time, eyes on Jonny as he lets out a deep satisfied sigh, limbs dropping to the bed like he’s got nothing left in in him. His lids dip like he’s only moments from passing out. 

Patrick still has to deal with the forgotten condom, so he climbs out of bed on legs that feel like jello to toss it in the bathroom and wash his hands. He barely recognizes himself in the mirror, cheeks and chest abraded with beard burn, lips raw, welts on his shoulders and down his back. Jonny wrecked him, he’ll wear the evidence of this for days, he thinks, a shameful frisson of warmth growing in his belly.

When he walks back into Jonny’s bedroom, he finds Jonny already asleep, curled up in the center of the bed. Patrick considers what he’s supposed to do now, eying the pile of his clothes and the door. He’s tired. He can’t believe they managed to do more than grind up on each other before knocking off to bed. But more importantly, he doesn’t want to go. The bed looks so inviting, Jonny’s face gone boyishly soft in sleep, his breaths shushing in and out. He looks at the door one last time and gives up. Who’s even here to judge him if he stays? 

Patrick turns the lights off and pulls the covers back, sliding under the cool sheets, feeling sleep at the edges of the horizon. Their hands brush when Patrick shifts, trying to get comfortable, and he finds himself lacing their fingers together a little guiltily. He succumbs to sleep, a pleasant warmth expanding in his chest, when Jonny’s hand closes around his, squeezing tight.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://simoneclouseau.tumblr.com/).


End file.
